‘Dogs!’ he shouted. His curse spattered the holy vessel with saliva. ‘What are you muttering about? Be quiet, heretics! Kneel as you should to receive the body of Christ, the only God! You!’ he said, pointing to an old man in the third row. ‘Straighten up! Do not prostrate yourself in front of your false idol! Look up! Raise your eyes when you are being offered the holiest of sacraments!’
His eyes blazed at two more Moriscos before he proceeded with the mass. Men and women went up in silence to eat ‘the cake’. Many of them would try to keep the wafer of wheat in their mouths until they could spit it out at home; all of them without exception washed out any crumbs that were left.
After receiving the blessing, the villagers filed out of church. The Christians received the blessing devotedly; the great majority of the others scoffed at it either by crossing themselves backwards and silently affirming that there was only one God, not the Christian trinity. Then the Moriscos rushed home to spit out the remains of the host. The few Christians in the village gathered at the church door to talk, ignoring the insults their children were shouting at the old woman, who had finally fallen from the ladder. She lay on the ground, numb and terrified, her lips blue as she struggled to draw breath. Inside the church, the priest and his assistants prolonged the penitent’s punishment, rebuking him for his sinful ways while they cleared away the ceremonial dishes.
1 Old Christians were those who had practised their religion throughout the Moorish occupation of Spain.
2 Moors forced to be baptized as Christians after the Reconquest; also known, together with Jewish converts, as new Christians.
3 Architecture of Moors living in Christian territory, but not forced to convert.
2
It is true that the Moriscos have risen up in rebellion, but it is the old Christians who have driven them to despair by their arrogance, larcenies, and the insolence with which they seize their women. Even the priests behave in a similar manner. When an entire Morisco village complained to the archbishop about their pastor, an investigation was made into the reasons for their complaint. Take him away from here . . . the faithful pleaded . . . or if not, let him be married, because all our children are born with the same blue eyes as him.
Letter from Francés de Álava, Spain’s ambassador in France, to Philip II, 1568
JUVILES WAS THE centre of a district made up of some twenty villages scattered round the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. A quarter of the land was irrigated, the rest dry earth. Wheat and barley were the main crops, and there were more than four thousand marjales1 planted with vines, olives, figs, chestnut and walnut trees, but above all with mulberries, fed on by the silk worms that were the area’s main source of wealth, although silk from Juviles did not enjoy the same prestige as that from other parts of the Alpujarra.
On those heights, at more than a thousand yards above sea level, the long-suffering, hard-working Moriscos cultivated even the steepest plot of land that could produce corn. Wherever the mountain slopes were not bare rock, they were filled with small terraces, carved out of even the remotest corners. That Sunday, with the sun already high, the young Hernando Ruiz was returning to Juviles from one of these terraces. He was fourteen, with dark-brown hair but a much lighter complexion than the burnished olive of the other villagers. His features were mostly similar to the other Moriscos, but beneath his thick eyebrows shone a pair of big blue eyes. He was of average height, thin and wiry.
He had just finished picking the last olives from a gnarled old tree that could withstand the cold of the mountains and grew protected beside the terrace planted with wheat. He had harvested them all by hand, climbing up the tree without using a pole, and had picked even the olives that still looked unripe. The sun tempered the cold breeze from the Sierra Nevada. Hernando would have liked to stay up there longer to hoe the weeds, and then visit another terrace, where he guessed his friend Hamid would be working the tiny parcel of land he owned. When they were on their own together on the mountainside, at work or roaming the hills in search of the herbs the modest older man used for his remedies, he called him Hamid rather than Francisco, the Christian name he had been baptized with. The majority of the Moriscos used two names: their Christian name and, within their own community, their Muslim one. Hernando, though, was simply Hernando, although in the village they often made fun of him or insulted him by calling him the ‘Nazarene’.
Remembering this nickname, the youth instinctively slowed down. He was no Nazarene! He kicked an imaginary stone, then continued towards his home: a house on the outskirts of the village where there had been enough room to build a stable for the six mules his father-in-law used to ply up and down the tracks of the Alpujarra, together with his favourite, La Vieja, the Old One.
It had been almost a year since his mother had been obliged to tell Hernando the reason for his nickname. One morning at dawn Hernando had been helping his stepfather Brahim – José to the Christians – to harness the mules. When he had finished, he was giving La Vieja an affectionate pat on the neck when a hefty blow to his head sent him sprawling.
‘Nazarene dog!’ Brahim shouted angrily. The lad shook his head to clear his thoughts, and raised a hand to his ear. Beyond his stepfather, who was standing threateningly over him, he caught a glimpse of his mother disappearing head down back inside their house.
‘You’ve not tightened that mule’s girth properly!’ his stepfather bawled at him, pointing at one of the animals. ‘Do you want it to rub all the way, so the mule won’t be able to work? You’re nothing more than a useless Nazarene, a Christian bastard,’ he said, spitting at him.
Hernando had crawled out from under his stepfather’s feet, then hidden in the straw in a corner of the barn, his head between his knees. As soon as the sound of the team’s hoofs announced Brahim’s departure, his mother Aisha appeared outside the stable, and then came in to find him, a glass of fresh lemonade in her hand.
‘Does it hurt?’ she asked, bending down and stroking his hair.
‘Why does everyone call me Nazarene, Mother?’ he sobbed, raising his head. Seeing her son’s face bathed in tears, Aisha closed her eyes. When she tried to wipe her son’s tears away, he jerked his head to one side, and insisted: ‘Why?’
Aisha sighed deeply, but then nodded and settled back on her heels in the straw. ‘All right, you are old enough now,’ she said sadly, as if what she was about to say took a huge effort. ‘You should know that fifteen years ago the village priest where I used to live in the parish of Almería took me by force . . .’ Hernando was so startled he stopped crying. ‘Yes, my son. As our Muslim law demands, I screamed and resisted, but there was little I could do against the strength of that – that brute. He came up to me in the fields a long way from the village, mid-morning one sunny day. I was only a child!’ she protested. ‘He ripped off my tunic, then threw me to the ground, and . . .’
Aisha stopped; the scene faded in her mind as she drifted back to reality. She found her son staring at her, his blue eyes wide open.
‘You are the fruit of that abomination,’ she said sadly. ‘That’s why . . . that’s why they call you the Nazarene. Because your father was a Christian priest. I am the one to blame . . .’
For several long seconds, mother and son stared at each other. Fresh tears streamed down the boy’s cheeks, this time caused by a different kind of pain. Aisha fought back her own tears until she realized it was impossible. She dropped the glass of lemonade and held out her arms to her son. He rushed into her embrace.
Even though the young Aisha had salvaged her honour by fighting her attacker, as soon as the pregnancy became obvious, her father, a poor Morisco muleteer, realizing that shame could not be avoided, tried at least to avoid having to witness it. He found the solution in Brahim, a young, good-looking mule-driver from Juviles whom he often met on the mountain trails. He offered marriage to his daughter in exchange for two mules as dowry: one for the girl, and the other for the child she was bearing. Brahim hesitated, but he was young
and poor and needed animals. Besides, who knew if the child would be born? Or perhaps it would only live a few months? In those inhospitable lands, many children died in infancy.
And so, although Brahim found the knowledge that the girl had been violated by a Christian priest repugnant, he accepted the offer and took her with him to Juviles, where, despite his hopes, Hernando was born a strong, healthy baby with the blue eyes of the rapist. He also survived his early infancy. The details of his origin were soon common knowledge, and although the villagers pitied the raped girl, they did not feel the same towards the illegitimate fruit of the crime. Their attitude became even harsher when they saw how Don Martín and Andrés favoured him. These two paid him even more attention than they did the Christian children, as if wishing to protect this priestly bastard from any influence of the followers of Muhammad.
The half-smile with which Hernando gave his mother the olives did not fool her. She gently stroked his hair as she always did when she knew he was sad. Even though his four stepbrothers and -sisters were in the room, he let her caress him: his mother could seldom show her affection openly, and then only when his stepfather was absent. Brahim had no qualms about joining in the Morisco community’s rejection of Hernando. His hatred of the blue-eyed Nazarene, the Christian priests’ favourite, had only increased when Aisha gave birth to their legitimate offspring. When Hernando was nine, he was pushed out into the stable with the mules, and only ate in the house when his stepfather was absent. Aisha was forced to follow her husband’s wishes, and could only show her love for her son through surreptitious but heartfelt gestures.
The food was ready and his four half-brothers and -sisters were waiting for him. Even the youngest, four-year-old Musa, scowled at him.
‘In the name of all-merciful God,’ Hernando prayed before sitting on the ground.
Little Musa and his brother Aquil, who was three years older, did the same. The three of them dipped their fingers into the pot and pulled out pieces of the lamb their mother had prepared with thistles cooked in oil, mint, coriander, saffron and vinegar.
Hernando glanced up at his mother. She was watching them eat, leaning against one of the walls of the small but clean room that served as kitchen, dining room and temporary bedroom for the other children. His two half-sisters, Raissa and Zahara, stood next to her, waiting for the males to finish eating before they began. Hernando chewed on a piece of lamb and smiled at his mother.
After the lamb dish, his eleven-year-old half-sister Zahara brought a platter of raisins. Hernando scarcely had time to try one or two before a muffled noise in the distance made him cock his head to one side. The other boys saw him and stopped eating, wondering what he had heard; neither of them had ears sharp enough to tell when the mules were arriving.
‘La Vieja!’ Musa shouted when the noise of her hoofs became obvious to them all.
Hernando’s mouth tightened as he looked across again at his mother. Her expression seemed to confirm that what they had heard was indeed La Vieja’s hoofs. He tried to smile, but could only twist his mouth sadly in the same way as she did: Brahim was on his way home.
‘Praise be to God,’ Hernando said, putting an end to the meal. He got up resignedly.
Outside, La Vieja stood waiting patiently for him. Her ribs stuck out from her dusty, sore-covered hide, but she was not carrying any load.
‘Come on, Vieja,’ Hernando said, and led her towards the stable.
The clip-clop of her hoofs followed him as he walked round the house. When they had reached the stable, he forked some hay for her and patted her neck affectionately.
‘How was your journey?’ he whispered as he examined a fresh sore that had not been there when she had left.
He watched her chewing the hay for a while, and then ran out up the mountainside. His stepfather would be in hiding, waiting for him well away from the Ugíjar road. Hernando ran for some time across open country, careful to avoid meeting any Christians. He skirted the cultivated terraces or anywhere someone might be working even at that time of day. Almost out of breath, he reached a rocky, inaccessible spot on the edge of a precipice, where he saw Brahim waiting for him. His stepfather was a tall, strong man with a beard. He was wearing a green broad-brimmed cap and a half-length blue cape under which a pleated tunic came down to his thighs. His legs were bare, but he wore leather shoes tied with laces. Like all the Moriscos in the kingdom of Granada, once new laws came into force at the start of the following year, Brahim would have to give up these clothes and wear Christian apparel. Even now he was defying the ban on carrying weapons by sporting a curved dagger at his belt.
Behind him, standing in line – there was no room for them abreast on the rocky outcrop – were the six loaded mules. In the cliff wall there were entrances to several small caves.
When he caught sight of his stepfather, Hernando slowed to a walk. The fear he always felt on seeing him gripped him once more. How would he be received this time? The last time he had cuffed him round the ear for taking so long, even though he had run all the way.
‘Why have you stopped?’ Brahim growled.
Hernando scurried towards his stepfather, instinctively shying away as he reached him. This did not save him from another cuff round the head. He stumbled, but then made his way up to the leading mule, squeezing between the animals and the rock face until he was at the mouth of one of the caves. Without a word, he began stuffing the bundles his stepfather unloaded into the cave.
‘This oil is for Juan,’ Brahim told him, passing him a jar. ‘Aisar!’ He shouted the Muslim name, seeing doubt flit across his stepson’s face. ‘This other one is for Faris.’ As he stacked the goods inside the cave, Hernando tried to remember to whom each one belonged.
When half the bundles had been unloaded, Brahim started off down to Juviles, leaving the boy at the cave entrance, staring out at the vast expanse of countryside that stretched as far as the Contraviesa in the distance. He did not stand there for long: he knew the landscape by heart. He turned back into the cave, and spent some time examining the goods he had just hidden and the many others stored there. Hundreds of caves in the Alpujarra had been turned into storehouses where the Moriscos hid their possessions. Before nightfall, the owners would appear to carry off whatever they needed. Every trip was the same. Wherever he came from, before reaching Juviles his stepfather would unhitch La Vieja and order her to find her way home. ‘She knows the Alpujarra better than anyone. I’ve spent my whole life on these trails, but she has got me out of a tight spot more than once,’ the mule-driver used to say. When La Vieja arrived on her own back in Juviles, that was the signal for Hernando to run up to the caves to meet his stepfather. By unloading half of the goods there, they also halved the high taxes that Brahim had to pay on the profits from his work. The buyers did the same with a large proportion of the goods they received from Hernando before they reached Juviles. The endless stream of collectors of tithes and tributes, as well as the bailiffs who imposed fines and penalties, would burst into the Moriscos’ homes to seize whatever they could find, even if it was worth more than what was owed. They never disclosed how much these goods fetched at auction, and so the Moriscos were robbed of their property. The community had made numerous complaints to the mayor of Ugíjar, the bishop and even the chief magistrate in Granada, but these protests always fell on deaf ears and the Christian officials went on stealing from them with impunity, which was why everyone adopted Brahim’s plan.
Seated with his back to the cave wall, Hernando crushed a dry twig and played half-heartedly with the pieces of wood; he had a long wait ahead of him. Looking at the piles of goods around him, he told himself these subterfuges were necessary: without them, the Christians would have left the Moriscos in absolute poverty. Hernando also helped the villagers hide their sheep and goats from the tithe. Although the Moriscos spurned him, they were willing to accept him as their accomplice. ‘The Nazarene’, one old man commented, ‘knows how to write, read and count.’ It was true: from his earl
y childhood, the sacristan Andrés had paid great attention to his education, and Hernando had shown himself to be a good pupil. Someone with a head for numbers was essential to fool the tithes collector who appeared every spring.
The tax collector demanded that the animals be herded together in a flat field and then made to file through a narrow corral of branches. Out of every ten animals, one was for the Church. The Moriscos argued that they should not have to pay a tithe on flocks of thirty or fewer animals, but should pay a fixed amount instead. As a result, when the official appeared, the village agreed between themselves to divide the flocks into groups of thirty or fewer, a ruse that afterwards demanded considerable skill when it came to re-forming the original groups.
Yet the cost had been very high for Hernando. As he recalled the evening when he had been chosen to help fool the Christians, he hurled the pieces of twig at the cave wall. They all fell to the ground before they reached it . . .
‘Many of us know how to count,’ one of the Moriscos had protested when it was suggested Hernando take the lead in this way. ‘Perhaps not as well as the Nazarene, but—’
‘But all of you own goats or sheep, which means the Christians are suspicious of you,’ insisted the old man who had proposed Hernando. ‘Neither Brahim nor the Nazarene has any interest in livestock.’
‘What if he betrays us?’ said a third man. ‘He spends a lot of time with the priests.’
Everyone fell silent.
The Hand of Fatima Page 2